Works of Ellen Wood, page 729
So Amy rose and went away in search of her husband. Where was he? Should she find him in his room? She hesitated ere she knocked, but his heavy tread a moment after assured her he was there. She did not look up as the door opened, but said simply, “Bertie is ill, Robert, very ill. Mr. Blane has been to see him, and says he has caught some fever, but not a dangerous one.”
All traces of sternness and anger fled from his brow, as he listened and caught the expression of his wife’s face. He wondered at the calmness with which she spoke. His boy ill, little Bertie, in whose life her very soul had seemed wrapt? and she could stand and speak of it so coldly, so calmly as this? He wondered, and saw nothing of the anguish within, or how the one terrible blow he had dealt her had for the time broken and crushed her spirit. Only a few hours ago, and she would have wept and clung round his neck for help, in this her one great hour of need. But that was past, could not be; he would not have it so, her love had been forbidden.
“I will go and see the boy,” he said, gently.
She turned and went on her way downstairs to the drawing-room.
“Good gracious, Mrs. Vavasour! what is the matter?” cried Frances, her heart beating savagely, as she looked at the poor face, so wan and still, telling its own tale of woe long before the lips did.
Amy took no notice of Frances, but passed on to where Mrs. Linchmore sat with the children. It was Alice’s birthday, and Bertie was to have come down too, and as Amy remembered it, her heart for the first time felt full; but she drove back the tears, and said —
“My child is ill. He has caught some fever; but not a dangerous one.”
How fond she was of repeating this latter phrase, as if the very fact of saying that it was not a dangerous fever would ease and convince her frightened, timid heart.
The words startled everyone.
“I am extremely sorry,” said Mrs. Linchmore, drawing Alice away. “I trust, I hope it is not infectious?”
“I very much fear it is, at least, Mr. Blane thinks the sore throat is, and advises the children, by all means, being kept apart.”
“They must go away, shall go away the very first thing to-morrow morning. It is as well to be on the safe side. Don’t you think so, Robert?” said Mrs. Linchmore.
“Decidedly. They can go into the village for the time or to Grant’s cottage.”
“There are cases of the same fever in the village,” said Amy.
“Then they must go away altogether,” said Mrs. Linchmore, hurriedly. “We must send them to Standale.”
“I am so sorry for Bertie, he’ll have such lots of nasty medicine,” said Fanny; “but won’t it be nice to be without Miss Barker?”
“Be silent, child!” said her mother, “Miss Barker will of course go with you.”
“Oh! how horrid!” returned Fanny. Even Mrs. Linchmore’s frown could not prevent her from saying that.
Amy passed out again even as she had come, almost brushing Frances’ dress, but without looking at her, although, had she raised her eyes, she must have been struck with the whiteness of her face, which equalled, if not exceeded, her own.
“Master has been here, Ma’am,” said Hannah, as Amy returned, “and bid me tell you he had gone to fetch Dr. Bernard.”
Again Amy sat by her boy watching and waiting. What else was there to be done? He still slept — slept uneasily, troubled with that short, dry cough.
Later on in the evening, when Dr. Bernard — whose mild hopeful face and kind cheering voice inspiring her poor heart with courage, — had been, and when the hours were creeping on into night a knock sounded at the door.
“Miss Strickland is outside, Ma’am, and wants to come in. Shall I let her?” asked Hannah.
Amy went out and closed the door behind her, and looked with unmoved eyes on Frances’ flushed and anxious face.
“How is he? May I go in?” she asked, eagerly.
“Never, with my permission,” was the chilling reply.
“Only for five minutes; I am not afraid of the fever, and my looking at him can do him no harm. I will promise not to stay longer than that.”
“No. You shall not go in for half a minute, even.”
“You cannot be so cruel,” said Frances; “you cannot tell how frightened and anxious I am. Oh! do let me see him.”
“I will not,” said Amy, angrily.
“Cruel, hard-hearted mother,” cried Frances. “I know he has asked for me. I know he has called for me!”
“I thank God he has not,” replied Amy, “for that would break my heart.”
“Then he will ask for me; and if he does, you will send for me, won’t you?”
“Never!” said Amy, as she turned away.
“Oh! Mrs. Vavasour, I love the boy; don’t you see that my heart is breaking while you stand there so pitilessly.”
“Had you loved the boy,” said Amy, “you would not have crushed the mother’s heart. What had I done to you, Frances Strickland, that you should pursue me so cruelly, first as a girl, when I never injured you, and then — now you have taken my husband’s love from me, and would take my boy’s also? But I will stand between him and you, cruel girl, as long as I live.”
“Don’t say so. Think — think — what if he should die?” said Frances, fearfully.
“Ah! God help me!” said Amy; she could say no more. But Frances clung to her dress.
“It is I who should say, God help me!” she cried; “don’t you know I took Bertie to the cottage where he caught the fever? Oh! Mrs. Vavasour, you don’t know half my agony and remorse, or what I suffered when I found out what I had done.”
“My boy’s illness, my husband’s scorn, broken hopes, and grieving heart, my crushed spirit, all — all I owe to you. May God forgive you, Miss Strickland.”
“Yes, yes; God forgive me. I deny nothing. But, oh! will not you forgive me, Mrs. Vavasour? I will try, I will, indeed, to make amends.”
This abject appeal from the proud Frances? But Amy scarcely heeded it.
“You cannot make amends,” she said, despairingly. “It is past atonement — this great wrong you have done.”
“Oh! do not be so harsh and cruel to me; your heart was soft enough once.”
“It was. You have changed it, and are the first to feel its hardness. I am no longer what I was; but for my boy I should turn into a stone, or die.”
“And I? What am I to do? If — if anything should happen to Bertie. Oh! I shall go mad,” she cried. “Think of my grief then. I, who unwittingly gave him this fever; think what my heart would feel, what it even feels now; and be not so merciless.”
“No, not half so merciless as your bad heart has been. I can give you no greater punishment than your own guilty remorse, and frightened heart. I will remain no longer, Miss Strickland. You shall not see my boy!”
And Amy left Frances weeping, perhaps the first genuine repentant tears she had ever shed.
Robert sat at his boy’s bed-side all that night, cooling his burning forehead and heated head with the cold wet cloth dipped in vinegar and water, or holding him up in his arms while his poor parched lips feebly yet eagerly drank from the cup his mother held so tremblingly before him, while Frances alternately walked her room despairingly, or crouched away in the dark on the stairs near, her ear vainly trying to catch the words of those mournful watchers and nurses who stepped about so softly in the sick chamber beyond.
CHAPTER XII.
A FADING FLOWER.
“The coldness from my heart is gone, But still the weight is there, And thoughts which I abhor will come, And tempt me to despair.
“Those thoughts I constantly repel; And all, methinks, might yet be well, Could I but weep once more; And with true tears of penitence My dreadful state deplore.” Southey.
The long hours of night wore away, and the morning broke, bright, fresh, and frosty. Then the long corridor and passages echoed with the sound of hasty footsteps hurrying through them, while the quick, sudden opening and shutting of doors betokened an unusual stir in the Hall. The children were preparing for their journey.
Half an hour later all was silent and still, more so than it had been for days. The children were gone.
Again we enter the sick room. Bertie is no better, but, if anything, worse; his little face more flushed and heated, his burning hands wandering restlessly about, to and fro, as he tosses and turns upon his little cot, his anxious eyes no longer looking mournfully, and as it were imploringly in his mother’s face for help from his pain, for Bertie is delirious, and does not even recognise her; his thoughts ramble, and he talks incoherently and strangely.
Mrs. Hopkins often came to see him, bringing, as was her wont, in cases of illness, broths and cooling drinks she had prepared with her own hand; but Bertie was too ill to heed them, and Amy could but look her thanks — words she had none.
It was on returning from one of these visits, with cup and saucer in hand, that she met Frances Strickland.
“Have you been to see Master Bertie?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss,” replied Mrs. Hopkins, with a sigh.
“And how is he? Do you think he is any better this morning?”
“No, Miss, I don’t. It’s my belief he couldn’t well be worse; but the doctor’ll know better than me. I suppose he’ll be here presently.”
“What makes you think him so ill?”
“I’ve been the mother of four, Miss, and lost them all, and none of them looked a bit worse than Master Bertie, poor, innocent lamb.”
“But you had not two doctors,” returned Frances.
“No, nor half the nurses to wait on mine; but I’d the same loving, craving mother’s heart and the same God to look up to and hope in,” and the housekeeper passed on, as the rebuke fell from her lips.
“Oh! I wish I could hope, I wish I could pray,” cried Frances, as she went once more into the solitude of her own room; not only did she grieve for Bertie, but the terror lest through her means he should die had at last brought repentance to her unfeeling heart; she had been so wicked, so relentlessly cruel to his mother, that perhaps the boy’s death was to be her punishment; and she could think of, scarcely look forward to, anything else.
Dr. Bernard stayed at the Park all that night; he whispered no decided hope to Amy’s heart. There was only a very grave look on his face as after bending over Bertie and feeling the quick, sharp pulse beating so fiercely against his finger, he said, “While there is life there is hope,” and Amy was obliged to content her poor heart with this, and repeat it over and over again to herself all through that long sad night; the second of Bertie’s illness, and of her own and her husband’s watch, for Robert scarcely ever left his boy, but remained through the weary hours of night patiently by his side; only old Hannah snatching every now and then a moment’s sleep.
Towards the morning Bertie grew more composed, the hands tossed about less restlessly, and the weary, anxious eyes closed in sleep: so calm and still he looked that Amy bent down her head to catch the faint breath.
“It is not death?” she said to Dr. Bernard, who had been hastily aroused.
“No. The crisis is past I hope. The fever has left him. It is weakness, excessive weakness,” but he did not add that that was as much to be dreaded as the fever; while Amy only prayed that when he awoke he would recognise her, so long it seemed since his little lips had said “Mamma.”
Just before luncheon, Anne with her husband drove up to the Hall. She was rushing into the morning-room with her usual haste and merry laugh, when she was checked by Mrs. Linchmore’s grave face.
“Has anything happened, Isabella? How grave you look.”
Yes a great deal had happened; she had a great deal to hear, and Anne sat herself down to listen to it all patiently — or as patiently as she could to the end. As soon as it was told, she was rushing impetuously from the room.
“Is the boy in the small red room?” she asked.
“Yes. But Anne, the fever is infectious; you had better stay away. Mrs. Vavasour can come and see you here.”
“As if she would leave him?” she cried, “not a bit of it, I know her better, besides I am not afraid of anything. I shall go.” Anne was right, there was very little indeed she was afraid of.
“But Anne, think of your husband; he might not like it.”
“Ah! true; how tiresome it is sometimes to have a husband! I suppose I shall have to wait a whole hour before he thinks of coming back.”
“Did he drive in with you?”
“Yes, and has gone on in the pony carriage to call at the Rectory. Isn’t it provoking. I have a great mind not to wait for him.”
“It might have been a great deal worse; suppose he had not driven in with you?”
“Then I should have braved his anger and been at the boy’s bed-side long ago,” and she walked to the window, and strained her eyes impatiently down the drive.
“Have you seen the child today?” she asked presently.
“No, not since his illness; but Dr. Bernard tells me the fever left him early this morning.”
“It did? Oh! then he’ll soon get better.”
“But he is so excessively weak, that he holds out small hopes of his recovery.”
“Poor dear Amy, how sad for her. Ah! there’s the carriage at last; how delightful! Mr. Russell could not have been at home.” And away she flew down the stairs, and stood impatiently on the terrace.
“My dear Thomas,” she exclaimed, “how slowly you drive. I always tell you you indulge the pony fearfully when I am not with you.”
Mr. Hall looked in surprise at his wife’s anxious face. “Why, Anne,” he said, “I had no idea you were in such a desperate hurry to return home, or I might have driven a little quicker.”
“Return,” she cried, “I am not thinking of such a thing. I want to stay for a week, if you will only let me, and Isabella does not object; you can go and arrange it with her presently,” said she, in her impetuous way.
“But I have yet to hear why I am to do all this,” returned her husband.
“Ah, I forgot! It’s because poor Amy Vavasour’s child, that little boy we saw when we were last here, is dying of some fever. They say it’s infectious, but you will not mind that, will you? I am not a bit afraid, and I do so want to comfort Amy.”
Mr. Hall looked very grave.
“Oh, don’t consider about it,” she said, “you can stay, too, you know; there is no reason why you should go home before Saturday.”
“It is not that,” he replied, “but this fever is infectious, Anne, and you will be running a great risk.”
“Do not think about it, Tom. I shall fret myself into a worse fever at home, and besides, think of poor Amy. I do not believe you can be so hard-hearted as to refuse me.”
So in the end, much against his wish, Mr. Hall yielded, and while he went to propose the plan to Mrs. Linchmore Anne went off on her mission of mercy, and was repaid by the sad smile, and almost glad light in Amy’s eyes as she greeted her.
Anne was shocked at the change in the boy; shocked too, with the mother’s wan, haggard look.
“My Mistress hasn’t been in bed for these two nights past, Miss,” said Nurse, interpreting Anne’s thoughts.
Not for two nights? It was absolutely necessary she should have some repose; so Anne set herself to work to accomplish it.
“Why not lie down, Amy, while your boy is asleep?”
“Impossible!” was the firm reply, “I could not.”
“But you will wear yourself out, you cannot possibly be of any use while he sleeps. I will sit by him for you, and call you the moment he wakes.”
“No, I must be by him when he wakes, I could not bear to think he looked at anyone else first; he has not known me for so long, that my heart is craving for some sign to show that he recognises me.”
This was conclusive, and Anne urged no more, but Robert said, “I think Mrs. Hall is right, Amy, in advising you to rest.”
“But I cannot leave the room, indeed I cannot.”
“There is no occasion for your doing so, you can lie on Hannah’s bed.”
Anne expected a fresh expostulation, but no, Amy moved away at once, and did as her husband wished.
“Where can I find a shawl for Amy, Mr. Vavasour?” said Anne, presently, “she will be frozen over there, without some wrap.”
He went away, and returned a moment after with one, which he spread over Amy as she lay, but without, to Anne’s astonishment, one loving word or even look.
“Try and sleep,” he said, gently, “I will call you in an hour.”
She thanked him, and closed her eyes.
But long before the hour had passed away, she was at Bertie’s bed-side, with the little head nestled in her bosom, and the soft, thin hand clasped in hers; he was too weak to say much, but he had named her, had recognised her; that was enough, he would not die now, without giving her one loving look. Die? Yes, she felt he would die, so thin and wasted, so hollow his cheeks, so weak, so utterly weak; and then the sorrowing faces of those around, the still graver one, and pitying words of the old doctor. Ah! there was no need to tell her; her boy, her beautiful boy, must die. Oh! the anguish of her heart, surely if a fervent prayer could save him, he would be saved yet.
Anne stole away by and by to her husband, and found him busy unpacking a carpet bag.
“I have been home and back again, Anne,” he said, “and made Mary put together the few things she thought you might require. I hope you will find them all right.”
“Oh! Tom, I do believe you are the only devoted, kind husband in the whole world; how fortunate it was I married you when I did.”
“Why so?” he asked.
“Because I see so many bad specimens of married life, that if I had waited until now, I would not have had you at any price.”
“Oh, yes, you would,” he said.
“Don’t be so conceited,” she replied, “remember you have never been drilled yet.”
“I have my wife to be conceited of,” he said, fondly; “and now Anne, tell me what news of the child?” She was grave in a moment.
“There is no hope. None whatever. Dr. Bernard gives none.”
